life and write

There are some things worth fighting for, worth all the might his 8-month-old, chubby little fingers can muster. There are some things so interesting, colorful, just beyond reach that only one’s persistent drive can wield the strength, the determination to not give up.

There was this flag on papa’s shoulder. Not just any ordinary flag, a flag with stars, stripes, red, blue, and white, braided seamlessly, seemingly stitched tight on his sleeve. But my 8-month-old was curious. With his dad’s slouchy winter hat that seemed to swallow his head, that baby’s eyes were fixed on that flag, colors, the texture, the awkward positioning on the sleeve. Oh yes it was stuck, securely pasted to the fabric.

At some point of the moment, there was a high-pitched squealing cry of frustration, but that baby knew there was a way he could get to that flag. That neither Velcro, nor length of reach could detour him. He stretched, and pulled, and reached again. He shifted in his dad’s arms, grunted, fussed and pulled until right then, right within his developing grasp (and a slight rounding of his dad’s shoulders), sweet, sweet success.

My son’s lesson to me: even if it seems difficult or out of reach, try anyway. Happy Friday!

“Watching a child makes it obvious that the development of his mind comes through his movements.”—Maria Montessori

Somewhere in the bended wrinkle of your boots, beside the tangled laces, the notes of your service, your experiences lie stitched in cloth and suede. In the bottom grooves of those boots, memories of the desert, the water, the hills and fields crowd in dark corners between heel and sole. Our little boys have all tried on your camel step, their small bare feet searching for the rhythm of their father, your narrative of love, courage, and hopefulness, your call of duty. I’ve watched you march in circles; sing your soldier’s song in call and response with our smiling children trying to keep cadence. I thank you for sharing your stories, your travels, your language, your life with us. As you serve, we serve with you, and we love you. Thank you Major Edwards for your service and duty sealed with your life in honor and commitment to the best for all of our lives.

Today, on Veteran’s Day, I thank you husband, father, brother, son…sing along with you today (and everyday) your solder’s song.

For two weeks or maybe 14 days, or more like 336 hours, I walked in my postpartum haze with milk spotted cotton shirt, the random chatter of boys on either side of my hips. I birthed the older boys years ago; though somehow they hang on the sway of my strut or still. The toys once scattered in awkward pose, an obstacle course on dull wood floors in the living room, now lie on top of each other over and over again in the basket in the corner. A tidy house, busy or empty, felt like sanity. For seven days I had no tears for the predicament he left us in, until my lap and forehead filled with fevers and runny noses, not in that order. But in that favor, the way favors seem cruel when home alone with just a piece of rest, a pile of laundry, and a tenor of moans that missed him. And I missed him too. In ailment, there were only moments of fresh air and deep breaths. Food is less appealing when you can’t smell or taste it. Without you, home was a stomach rumbling.

I used to think I was covert; my routine of watching the mail was a secret ritual, a reassurance, more time. But when we married, I was incessant, at first; I watched the mail daily, listened for the open screech, then the dull echo as letters dropped to the bottom of the mailbox. Your time became mine, and I was waiting, surprisingly unlike you. Each day my eyes would scan the bold blue or black letters tucked in the corner. I didn’t know you knew I was watching; waiting, pacing on the porch, fumbling the paper through my fingers, the letters, bills, and packages, bundled in my arms. And without incidence, I would count each day grace, another day without notice, another day with you, with us. After months of watching me dance this ritual, in and out the door, the clanking metal lid, you simply said, “it will come certified.”

It was then that I learned to stop watching (though honestly I still watch a little), and just live our life together, without the slow, agonizing wait. I realized I couldn’t stop living because I was waiting. I was missing out on now. I know this time, our time is borrowed, and though I’d like to borrow it forever, I’m happy with the present, even if just this moment.

If we take care of the moments, the years will take care of themselves.—Maria Edgeworth

On this Veteran’s Day I am reminded that military life is real and that military families make immeasurable sacrifices for this country, in war and in peace time, in service and as veterans of service.

To all the ones that serve (and have served), honor (and respect) to you on this Veteran’s Day and every day.

Thank you Alfonso, the boys and I love you, we respect you, and we are in awe of your sacrifice for us and for this country.

Mason whispered in my ear, “I need to make the card for Fons.” Yes, our 6-year-old wanted to honor our soldier on Memorial Day. So I pulled out the crayons, colored pencils, markers, and paper. The boys scribbled art and messages of love and thanks. The boys presented their Memorial Day greetings with hugs and high fives. Thank you Major Edwards for all that you do for our family and for our country.

Thank you to all the military men and women for all that you do for our country. Today and everyday we honor you, we will always remember . Thank you…

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Early in the morning, there are familiar sounds in the distance: the buzz of his clippers, the on and off of running water, the light press of footsteps on the creaky wood in the hallway. I ease out of bed and quietly stand in the doorway to watch him dress, piece by piece, methodically. He dresses with most of the lights off, as to not wake the boys, stands in the glow of a single dull bulb in the closet.  His wrist wrapped in a crisp white shirt warm and freshly pressed, his Army “dress blues” decorated with ribbons, combat badges, shiny gold buttons. His black patent shoes shine without a fingerprint or a smudge. His dark beret signaled with a flash, folds crisp just above his brow. All together now soldier, a modest man now in uniform stands proudly in front of me, leans in with a kiss, then leaves before the sun comes up.

I thought the days would pass quickly. I would busy myself with work, thoughts, and the creative. But the truth is the silence in this house is swelling around me. I read, I eat, I write, I think. I miss you. We talk in little bits, what seems like seconds, as you try to save your battery on the field. I listen as you report the effects of the day on your spirit, on our family, the background filled with the rumblings of other soldiers and friendly gunfire (if gunfire can be described that way). Late at night in the barracks your whispers I hold close to my ear, the hum of your voice chopped in frequency, the night is not the only thing that separates us.

And our son, our little boy speaks new words, looks for our faces, our voices, but sounds so happy in the warm southern sun. I can hear his smile in the voice of your mom. Her love is like ours wrapped up in his tears and laughter, his baby chatter and his whistling sleep. I miss him terribly but I know she keeps him inside her heart and that is enough for these long days without him.

This is just a short time in the length of our lives but a long lesson of how we all serve when you serve, how the space between us is only distance. We are as close as we ever were and closer still.

“It’s hard to find the off switch in war.” —Bob Woodward, author of Obama’s War

(From a round table discussion about political conflict, war, and foreign policy on this past Sunday’s Meet the Press)

My husband is a really cool dude, but I just don’t understand his interest in spy tactics, war games, and strategic weaponry (yawn). He’s always trying to get me to sit and watch shows like Ultimate Weapons on The Discovery Channel with him. I’m sorry, but that just sounds so boring (and violent). Maybe it’s a guy thing. Or maybe it’s a military thing. I don’t know, but it’s surely not my thing. He seems to think I’m missing out on brilliant bits of obscure knowledge and random facts. I’m sorry but I just can’t get excited about US fighter crafts and German sniper weapons.

I’ve watched you shave a dozen times in that mirror, peel away the charcoal dusting on your chin and cheeks, your hand steady under the rapid buzzing hum. I know I do not understand the honor sweeping in the stitch of your uniform, the memory of dry desert dust in the grooves on the bottom of your boots. I’ve listened to your stories of the Middle East. I hear how the deep pitch in your voice once tuned the ears of 200 soldiers under your command. I remember when you gave your bronze star to little Sam, how he beamed at meeting a real soldier, and how you were moved to silence when you heard he had passed from his cancer.

I do not understand your inner conflicts pressed in the seams of your collar. I do not always understand your pride, or your subtle shift in demeanor when you wear your uniform. But I do understand your commitment to service, your enduring strength.

I watch the mail daily, scan the bold blue letters tucked in the corner. I didn’t know you knew I was watching, counting each day grace. You say, “it will come certified.” But as the anxious world stirs around us, I get the sense we’re on borrowed time.

Major Edwards